‘No idea! She just turned up moments before the performance started.’ George’s mystification was evident. ‘A lady of the night, I assumed. Well – wouldn’t you? Most probably a gesture from the magnanimous John. Whoever he is. Can’t say I approve much of such goings-on! I say – is this sort of behaviour becoming acceptable in Paris these days? The done thing, would you say?’

His words ran into the sand of their silent speculation. Joe paused to allow him to expand on his statement but George appeared unwilling.

He pressed on. ‘You were not able to furnish the Chief Inspector with a description of the lady?’

‘Sadly no. She was wearing one of those fashionable cape things . . . Kept it on over her head. She came in after the lights went out . . .’

‘The lights went on during the interval?’ Joe objected quietly. He was beginning to understand some of Fourier’s frustration.

‘Jolly awkward! I mean – what is one to say in the circumstances? Any out and out dismissal or rejection is bound to give offence, don’t you know! I chatted about this and that – put her at her ease. She didn’t have much to say for herself . . . comments on the performance . . . the new look of the theatre, that sort of thing. I gave her a glass of the whisky I’d ordered in expectation of a visit from my cousin Jack who’s very partial to a single malt –’

‘The lady,’ said Joe. ‘What do you have to report?’

‘Um . . . didn’t like the scotch but too polite to refuse. She’d probably have preferred a Campari-soda . . . I think you know the type . . .’ He paused. His mild blue eye skittered over Joe’s and then he drawled on: ‘French. Yes, I’m sure she was French. Spoke the language like a native, I’d say. Though I’m not the best judge of accents. Not perhaps a Parisian,’ he added thoughtfully. ‘Cape all-enveloping, as I’ve said, no clear idea of her features. But – average height for a woman. Five foot something . . .’ He caught Joe’s narrowed look and amplified: ‘Five foot five. Slim. Well-educated. Obviously from a top-flight establishment. Suggest you start looking there. I expect the Chief Inspector is well acquainted with these places? In the line of professional enquiry, of course.’

Joe hurried on. ‘Moving to the finale . . . You say there was a commotion when Miss Baker announced the arrival of the Spirit of St Louis . . .’

‘Commotion? It was a standing ovation! Went on for at least ten minutes. Stamping, shouting and yelling! Quite unnecessary and embarrassing display! And that’s when she disappeared, I think. My unknown and unwanted companion.’

‘And at the true finale – Golden Fountain, you call it? – you observed your acquaintance Somerton to be slumped in his box opposite.’

‘I feared the worst. Well, not the worst I could have feared, not by a long chalk, as it turned out . . . Thought he’d had a heart attack. Anno domini, don’t you know . . . Stimulating show and he’d been twining about a blonde of his own . . .’ George bit his lip at his faux pas, hearing it picked up in the energetic scratching of Fourier’s pen, but he ploughed on: ‘A spectacular girl – I’ve given the description.’

‘Yes, I see it. Remarkably detailed, Sir George. She obviously made quite an impression?’

‘The girl thirty metres away was clearly more vivid to Jardine than the one who was practically sitting in his lap,’ offered the Chief Inspector acidly.

‘Opera glasses, George? . . . Yes, of course.’

‘And she disappeared from her box . . . oh, no idea, really,’ said Sir George vaguely. ‘Sometime before the finale, that’s as near as I can say.’

‘And you decided to go over there in a public-spirited way to see if you could render assistance?’

‘Old habits die hard, you know. Taking charge of potentially awkward situations . . . always done it . . . always will, I expect. Interfering old nuisance, some might say.’

‘Sir George has run India for the last decade,’ Joe confided grandly, probably annoying the hell out of Fourier, he thought, but he pressed on: ‘Riots, insurgencies, massacres . . . all kinds of mayhem have been averted by his timely intervention. Adisturbance in a theatre box is something that would elicit energetic action.’

‘As would intent to murder,’ replied the Chief Inspector, unimpressed.

‘Tell us what happened next, will you? I see that this is as far as you got in twelve hours, despite vigorous encouragement from the Chief Inspector. No wonder he’s looking a bit green around the gills.’

George described with accompanying gestures the scene of discovery. The Chief Inspector scribbled.

At last when George fell silent, Fourier put down his pen, a look of triumph rippling across his features. ‘And this story meshes splendidly with the eyewitness account we are given by the helpful ouvreuse, but only up to a point.’

With a generous gesture, he peeled off another police witness sheet and allowed Joe and Bonnefoye to read it.

‘The lady says . . . I say, shall we call her by her name since she seems to be playing rather more than a walk-on role in this performance? Mademoiselle Francine Raissac states that she came upon the two Englishmen in Box B in the course of her nightly clearing-up duties. The man she refers to as “the ten franc tip” – the large good-looking one (Sir George) – was in close contact with the smaller weaselly one (“the five franc tip”) and she took the former to be in the act of cutting the throat of the latter since the blood was flowing freely between the two and Sir George, who turned and looked up on hearing her scream, was covered in his compatriot’s blood.

‘The men were alone in the box, the partner of the five franc tip being no longer present. Mademoiselle Raissac declares she is unable to furnish us with a full description of the lady. She had never seen her before. She remembers she was young – less than twenty-five years old – and had fair hair. Mademoiselle Raissac further declares the girl must have been speaking French since she (Mademoiselle Raissac) was not conscious of any accent. Mmm . . .’

‘A second elusive fair beauty. How they cluster around you Englishmen! I do wonder what the attraction is,’ scoffed Fourier.

As George seemed to be about to tell him, Joe changed the subject with a warning scowl. ‘I should very much like to see the corpse,’ he said, ‘and hear the opinion of your pathologist . . .’

‘But certainly,’ agreed the Chief Inspector. ‘And perhaps you would also like to examine the murder weapon? Oh, yes, it was discovered. At the feet of the corpse on the floor of the box where Sir George dropped it. A finely crafted Afghani dagger.’ He turned and looked for the first time at George. ‘I understand, Jardine, that you were, at one time, a soldier in Afghanistan?’

‘A long time ago,’ said George. ‘As was Somerton. We both served for a spell on the North-West Frontier. The blade was most probably his own. He had a fondness for knives. And a certain skill with them. It definitely wasn’t mine. I have an abiding aversion for them. I favour a Luger these days for self-protection. Though I make a point of never going armed to the theatre. Too tempting to express an over-critical view of the performance. And these closely tailored evening suits – anything more substantial than a hatpin completely ruins the line, you know.’

Joe was reassured to hear a flash of the old Sir George but was becoming more anxious for his safety as the sorry tale evolved. His old friend, the man he admired and trusted above all others, was in serious trouble.

Fourier clearly didn’t believe a word he said and was looking out for a quick arrest. Possibly within the twenty-four-hour limit he prided himself on achieving. If George had killed this man, Joe was quite certain Somerton had deserved it. But he determined to know the truth. His compulsion was always to go after the truth using any means at his disposal; he had no other way of functioning. And having found out the truth? And supposing it didn’t appeal to him? He smiled, recalling the wise words of an old member of the Anglo-Indian establishment . . . what had been her name? . . . Kitty, that was it. Mrs Kitson-Masters.